Death, love, and hot cocoa
by AlessNox
Summary: In the days before Christmas, John finds that he's lost an entire Wednesday worth of memories What was he doing, and does Sherlock know more than he claims? A lost Wednesday fic written for the 25 days of fic-mas challenge


Sherlock wakes with a thump, suddenly finding himself on the carpet and on John's feet. Rolling onto his back, John's stockinged toes still jutting into his side, he looks up past blue jeans and John's ugly red Christmas sweater to see a face full of confusion.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Why am I here and not in bed? Did I oversleep? I was supposed to open the surgery today."

John steps over Sherlock's supine body and marches across the carpet toward the door. He stops by the coat rack, running his fingers through his hair as he searches for his shoes. Then he raises his hand to his throat and says, "I'm parched," before turning toward the kitchen.

Sherlock rolls over and pushes himself to his feet. Peering through the kitchen door he watches as John fills a glass under the tap, drinks it, and then fills another.

"But John, you don't have to go to the surgery today. It's your day off," Sherlock says.

"No, Thursday is my day off. Today is Wednesday."

"No it isn't. It's Thursday."

"Sherlock, I do know my days of the week. Yesterday was Tuesday, so today is Wednesday."

"No John, it is Thursday. Check your watch."

John sighs and looks down at his watch. He holds it closer to his face as if that will change what he sees. Then he looks up at Sherlock and frowns. "Did you reset my watch?"

"No."

"This isn't one of your experiments is it?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again.

"So it _is_ an experiment. Sherlock, this is NOT funny!" John pushes past him through the door and into the living room. He walks over to the coat rack, pulls his phone out of his coat pocket and stares at it before glaring up at Sherlock.

"The phone too, huh?" He dials, all the while keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "Hello. Annie? Yes. This is Dr Watson. I'm really sorry, I know that I should have opened today. I must have overslept. …. oh… really? So it's my day off. Really? And what day of the week is today? Thursday? I see. I guess I got the schedule mixed up. Yes. Well... you have a good day too. Goodbye Annie."

John closes the connection, placing the phone back into his coat. Then he bites his lip, glancing down at the floor as he stands still, lost in thought.

Sherlock walks toward him and asks, "John, are you okay?"

"No." John says his eyes wrinkling in worry "Somehow I seem to have lost an entire day of my life. I can't remember any of it."

"You remember nothing? Not even the morning?"

"The last thing that I remember is going to bed on Tuesday."

"Interesting."

"Is it? I would have said disturbing." John ran his fingers through the hair at his temple, and then glanced at his palm before closing his hand into a fist. He walked back over to the couch. "We were on the couch. I'm dehydrated, so we could have been drinking alcohol, but I don't see bottles anywhere." John walks across to his chair, picks up his mug and sniffs it "Did we have hot cocoa?"

"John."

"It doesn't smell like alcohol."

"John, I..."

"And this Christmas jumper. I wouldn't have worn this to work. What happened yesterday? Do you remember, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks into John's worried eyes and remembers.

* * *

Pacing back and forth across the hearth rug, his phone against his ear, Sherlock said, "It doesn't make sense. The wine stain on her sock, and the marks on her face show that she was passed out on the bed for several hours. She can't have shot her husband. Did you get the results of the drug test?"

"Yes, there was PPDO found in the wine, and in her blood."

"As I suspected. But why put a date rape drug in your wife's drink? I would think that she would already be more than willing."

"Maybe they were having marital problems?"

"Not everyone's marriage is as abysmal as yours, Lestrade. They're newlyweds. All indications suggest that they were perfectly happy with each other. Besides, didn't she say that they were rehearsing a play? Look at the script. The pages found on the living room floor? If in the play he told her to shoot him..."

"But Sherlock, even if he yelled 'shoot me!' to her face while she was holding the gun, there's is no evidence that PPDO can make someone cause serious harm to someone they care about. It just lowers inhibitions. It's not mind control."

"PPDO causes extreme short term memory loss. He could have tricked her in some way."

"You're trying to say that the husband wanted his wife to shoot him?"

"I'm just suggesting that it might be possible. Has anyone actually done the experiment?"

"What experiment?"

"Giving someone the drug and then ordering them to shoot? PPDO has a bitter taste. Best to mix it in with something sweet. Preferably something warm, as it has a relatively low solubility."

"Now wait a minute Sherlock, you aren't thinking of taking the drug and trying to shoot someone are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If I took the drug, How would I remember the experiment? I'd have to give it to someone else."

"Sherlock!"

"Now find the script that they were working on and send images of the pages to me. I have to think about this a bit more."

"But Sherlock..."

"Good day, Lestrade." Sherlock closed the connection and then pushed aside the flap of his red dressing gown to slip the phone into his trouser pocket.

He picked up a small glass vial from the kitchen counter and held it up to his eye. White flakes shifted inside like sand. In liquid they would spread across the surface like the first layers of snow to stick in a snowstorm before melting away into nothing. Sherlock opened the cabinet door and pulled out the container of hot cocoa. Then he turned toward the door.

"Mrs Hudson!" he called, "Mrs Hudson!"

Hearing no reply, Sherlock opened the door to the hall and looked down over the landing to see John entering the flat.

"If you're looking for Mrs Hudson, she just left."

"She left? Why?"

"It's Wednesday, bridge night."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh, "Ah yes, her eternal quest to beat Mrs Madison. She'll never win. Mrs Madison cheats too well."

John walked up the last few steps until he was standing directly in front of Sherlock, his dark blue eyes looking up at him. "What did you need her for?"

Sherlock's glance moves down and up John's body. _Early shift this morning. Mostly mild colds and flu. A baby spit up on his knee. Bag in his hand. Washing the clothes that he keeps at work, that means he plans to stay home tomorrow. Mrs Hudson will be out late. Excellent time for experimentation._

"So Sherlock, why did you want Mrs Hudson?"

"I thought perhaps to borrow some cream. No matter, I can make it with milk."

"What are you making?" John asked. Sherlock looked down at John. There were droplets of water in his hair.

"I'm making hot cocoa," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. "You're wet, John. Why don't you take a shower, and I'll make you a cup."

"Do you even know how to make cocoa?"

"Don't insult me, John. I am a graduate chemist after all." Sherlock strode back into the kitchen, his gown flaring out behind him. He picked up the tin of cocoa, palming the bottle of PPDO with his other hand before John could see it.

John put his bag down in the chair. "Well, in that case, I'd love some."

While John showered off the baby smells, Sherlock entered his room. Pushing aside the shirts and trousers hanging in his closet, he found the green army bag underneath a particularly hideous brown suit. Inside was John's Browning. With gloved hands, he removed the clip exchanging it with blanks before returning the gun to the bag.

Later, at the sound of John's footsteps walking back down the stairs, Sherlock stirred the drink, carefully scraping off the thin white film forming on the inside of the mug. He looked up to see John dressed in his lounging clothes: Jeans, a plaid shirt, and a hideous red Christmas Jumper that an old girlfriend had given him. Sherlock planned to "accidentally" spill acid on it at the earliest opportunity.

John sat in his chair and picked up the newspaper off of the side table. He shook it out and began to read. Sherlock handed him the cocoa and John folded the paper in half, holding it with one hand, so that his other hand was free to take the steaming mug from Sherlock.

"Thank You. And Sherlock, I want you to ask before using my laptop. The last time that you were on it, you rearranged my files. It took ages for me to put them all back in the right places."

"But John. My system was more efficient. It makes more sense to group your files by subject and year."

"It isn't efficient if I can't find anything."

"It would only take a few days to learn my system if you..."

"Just keep off my laptop, all right Sherlock," he said waving the paper at Sherlock's nose before taking another sip of cocoa.

"Fine," he said sitting down in his chair. "If you didn't want me to use your laptop, you should have used a harder password. _'ArmyDoctor1234'_ is hardly difficult to guess."

John lowered the paper and glared at him. Sherlock crossed his legs and glanced away as John resumed reading.

A moment later, Sherlock picked up his own mug and balanced it on his knee. He leaned forward, staring across the top of his mug at John, those silver, gold eyes focused on his every sip.

John glanced at him, then looked up again wondering at his intense focus. "It's good," John said with a smile before taking another sip.

Sherlock nodded and rose to his feet. Walking into the kitchen to wait. He glanced at his watch.

A few minutes later he walked back into the room. John was sitting in his chair turning his head from side to side.

"Something wrong, John?"

"My newspaper. I thought it was around here. Where did I put it?"

"It's there, beside your chair, John."

"Oh, thank you," John said picking it up from the floor. Sherlock leaned forward looking into John's eyes, and noticing that they were dilated.

John laid the paper on his lap. "What is it Sherlock?"

"Your gun. I need it."

"My gun? What for? I'm not letting you shoot at the walls again."

"I just...need it. Go get it for me, will you?"

John narrowed his eyes, his lips pursing with suspicion before he lowered his shoulders with a sigh, "All right. I'll be right back."

After John left, Sherlock pushed the chairs out of the way. He took his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the mantle setting it to record.

"PPDO experiment one. Test subject will be asked to shoot a gun at another person whom he would not normally shoot at. Now, let us adjust angle the camera here. The victim was standing beside a table. Blood was found on the surface, so the distance to the gunman must have been... hmmm, about here. Just a second."

Sherlock rummaged in a drawer removing a piece of chalk. He walked back toward the camera and drew an X on the carpet. Then he stood beside the table, and waited for John to return. After several minutes, he went to check that the camera was working. "John should have found his gun by now. Where is he?" Sherlock said.

In the darkness of the hallway, he saw a glint of light. He starred at it standing perfectly still as the light moved toward him, resolving itself into John's eye. He entered the room in a half-crouch, gun drawn. He scanned the room quickly panning his gun from side to side. Then he looked at Sherlock questioning him with his eyes.

"John," Sherlock said without moving a muscle. "There's no one else here."

John walked further into the room, looking through the kitchen door before turning back to Sherlock.

"Then who were you talking to?" he said without lowering the gun.

"No one. What's wrong, John?"

"I don't know. I found myself getting my gun, then suddenly I couldn't remember why. Is there someone here, Sherlock?"

"No, John. We are perfectly safe."

"Then say the word."

"Persian slipper."

John lowered the gun, and let out a relieved breath. "Good God, Sherlock, what is going on!"

Sherlock noticed that John had stopped exactly on the X. He gave a lopsided smile, and walked to his place beside the table.. "John. I need you to shoot me now."

John looked up startled. "What?"

"Shoot me. Shoot me with the gun."

John furrowed his brow clutching the gun tighter in his hands. "I don't understand what you're asking, Sherlock."

"I am being perfectly clear, John. Shoot me!"

"No."

"I want you to. Right here in my heart. Shoot!"

"No, Sherlock. Don't be ridiculous."

"Shoot me! Now! As you love me, John, shoot!"

A loud boom sounded and Sherlock felt a sharp pain in his hand. He jumped back, hitting the table before sliding down onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" John cried running forward.

Sherlock looked around, watching as John dropped the gun on the table and bent down to wrap his arms around him.

"Are you hurt, Sherlock? Christ! I didn't mean to hurt you. I turned the gun away. Are you hurt? Sherlock, please! Talk to me!"

Sherlock took in a breath, "I'm fine, John. I'm fine. Just a bit... surprised."

"Why did you ask me to shoot you? Christ, Sherlock are you insane?"

"It was an experiment, John."

Sherlock sat on the ground, his back against the table leg as John knelt beside him. He pulled a large chunk of wood out of the back of Sherlock's hand making him wince.

"What kind of experiment could possibly require me to kill you, Sherlock?"

"The gun was supposed to be full of blanks. I don't know how… of course. I was a fool to discount your military training. You would have checked the rounds first. Foolish!"

Sherlock turned to look at John who was holding his hand in both of his, a confused expression on his face. "Sherlock, you're hurt."

"Yes John. The gunshot took a chunk out of the table leg, and it cut my hand."

John swiveled around. "Gun shot? Are we in danger?"

"No, no, John. It was an accident."

"Sherlock, you're hurt."

"Yes John."

"How did this happen?"

"I just told you, John. The chunk of wood. You took it out of my hand...oh, the memory loss. I didn't expect it to be quite this extreme. I didn't expect...Why John! You're brilliant! Yes, that must have been what happened. She would have aimed away, just like you did, even expecting the gun to be filled with blanks. She was a stage actress, so she would have pointed a bit toward the audience. There's a second bullet there, I know it!"

Sherlock felt a soft touch and he turned to find John kissing his hand. He pulled it away from his mouth and looked at it. "You're bleeding," John said. "We need to get this seen to."

Sherlock's jaw fell open and he stared. John put a hand to his forehead. "You feel clammy. I think that you're going into shock. Come, let's get you to lie down."

"It was the uncle, John." Sherlock told him, gripping his arm as John pulled him to his feet, "Her uncle stood to inherit her interest in the company if she went to jail, and he would have, if she had shot him, but she didn't. She aimed to the side. When the gun went off, she dropped it on the table and her drink spilled. That was the stain on her sock. It makes sense John!"

John helped Sherlock to the couch and sat him there. He sat beside him and pulled Sherlock's head into his lap.

"The husband would have been upset because of the loaded gun. Those were the raised voices that the neighbors heard. Then all he needed was to pour the husband a drink and wait. Then he could stage it again, only this time the uncle had the gun. That's why they needed a script! She wouldn't have needed it. She already knew her lines. My phone. I need to phone Lestrade!"

Sherlock tried to rise to sitting but John pushed him back down. "Shhh!" John said. "Stay still, you've had a shock. You need to rest."

Sherlock looked up at John, grey eyes staring into blue. "I've solved the case. With your help, John. I've solved the case. You certainly are my conductor of light!"

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "Hush. You can call him later. You are an amazingly brilliant man, but even you need to rest sometime."

Sherlock smiled, his eyes glowing. "Do you really think so?"

"That you need rest? Yes I do."

"No, the other bit?"

"Oh, you mean the part about you being amazing? Yes. You, Sherlock Holmes, are amazing."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rolled toward John who brushed his fingertips across Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's entire body seemed to melt as he relaxed onto John who stroked his hair lightly.

"Say it again, John."

"You're amazing."

Sherlock's smile grew wider and he reached out with one hand holding on to John's jumper. "Say it again."

"Sherlock, you are a brilliant man with a wonderful mind. You are indeed amazing. I have to stop myself from saying it out loud all of the time, but I can't say it all night. There are limits, you know, for how many times a man can complement his flatmate. People might talk."

"Well just say it three more times, just three more times okay. I am in shock after all."

"Alright, but only three. Sherlock, you are amazing."

"Again."

"You are brilliant, you are amazing!"

"Again,"

"You are wonderful."

"Again,"

"You are fantastic."

"Again,"

"You're amazing. How many times has it been now?"

"Two, again."

"You are amazing, Sherlock."

"Say it again,"

"You're wonderful."

"Again."

"You're fantastic."

"Say it again."

"You're amazing."

"Again…."

* * *

"And this Christmas jumper. I wouldn't have worn this to work. What happened yesterday? Do you remember, Sherlock?"

Sherlock remembers the smell of John's Christmas jumper, the feel of John's fingers in his hair, the sense of joy that he felt when John praised him again and again. How he had told himself that the next time would be the last. That he was taking advantage of John who was under the influence of a drug, but he couldn't stop himself. John's praise was like water, it was like the sun. Sherlock craved it like the very air itself. Would John understand why he had kept him talking for hours until John's throat had gone hoarse, and they had both finally fallen asleep?

"Sherlock?"

"I… I don't know, John. I don't know what happened."

John frowned. "That's strange. Well, I suppose it will come back to me after a while. I … wait, is that my gun? Someone's taken a chunk out of this table. Sherlock! How many times do I have to tell you, guns are not toys! I'm going to go put this away now, and when I come back, we can have a little talk about gun safety."

John picked up the gun and removed the rounds, glaring at Sherlock suspiciously before walking out into the hall. He turned back then and said, "And Sherlock, please stay off of my laptop. It took me hours to put my files back to where they belonged after you were on it last time."

"Yes, John. Although you should considerer picking harder passwords."

John smiled, "I don't know how you always are able to guess my passwords. Sherlock, you really are a….. you're... a lazy git! Next time use your feet and get your own damn laptop." John turned away then and marched heavily up the stairs.

Sherlock grinned and then noticed that his phone was perched on the mantle. He picked it up and texted Lestrade to arrest the uncle. Then he noticed that his memory was full. He played the recording.

"PPDO experiment one. Test subject will be asked to shoot a gun at another person whom he would not normally shoot at." Sherlock wound it forward and played again.

" 'You are brilliant, you are amazing!' 'Again,' 'You are wonderful.' 'Again,' 'You are fantastic.' "

He stopped the tape and closed his eyes, holding the phone against his chest for a moment. Then he put it in his pocket and strode toward his bedroom.


End file.
